


A Demon's Christmas Carol

by havisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Boarding School, Boarding School Cultists, Cats, Demon Summoning, Demonic Possession, Developing Friendships, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Haunted Houses, Historical Fantasy, M/M, New England Gothic, Occult, Poor Life Choices, Temptation, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: A group of friends battle boredom at their isolated boarding school in a novel way: by summoning a demon.Chaos, romance and character growth results.
Relationships: Amateur Cultist/The Demon He Summoned, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	1. Summoned

“Stop _squirming_ , Fanny! You’re making a mess of the blood sigils,” said Webster sharply. He reached out and pinched Fanny’s side quite viciously, and Lytton said he thought the flame had turned blue.

Eagerly, all three of them watched the guardian flame that would indicate that the demon they were trying to summon had found the sacrifice of Fanny’s virginity to be sufficient to grant them their wishes, but no. The candlelight in the middle of the pentagram remained resolutely orange. 

Webster sighed in disgust. He was a handsome boy of eighteen, in his last year at Hawthorne School, and he had really thought this would be it. The secret occult texts he had found hidden beneath the floorboards of the library, and the two friends he had persuaded to join his little study group, as he called it. When Nathaniel Polifax — Fanny to everyone who knew him — confessed that he was a virgin, Webster thought the summoning would finally work.

Demons always wanted something rare or irreplaceable. Fanny’s virginity wasn’t exactly that — Webster had done the deflowerment, at Fanny’s tremulous request — but it should have qualified. All the books said it should.

Such was Webster’s disappointment that he wandered over to the window and looked out to the wintry scene outside. They were in an old attic at the top of the school, and the one round window that looked out over the snow-covered woods had a view of the twisting road that went to the school. 

Behind him, he heard Lytton helping Fanny get dressed. Fanny was sniffling — it would be exactly like him to catch cold now, even though it was barely freezing in the attic. Webster was about to turn and tell him so when a sight stopped him. A carriage was careening down the road, hurrying towards the school. He saw that it was led by four white horses and seemed to bear a crest on the side.

“What’s that about?” he wondered. He turned to his friends and motioned them to join him. Of course, once they had, there was nothing to be seen. “Is it a new student or a teacher? They still haven’t replaced Mr. Halifax from the summer.”

“It’s too late to replace him this year. Perhaps it’s a student,” Fanny pointed out. He had slipped back into his striped blue and white pajamas and was discreetly trying to wipe his eyes dry. Webster felt the impulse to comfort him. He squashed it. 

Fanny wasn’t a _bad_ fellow — indeed, he was usually very pleasant and tractable, but lately he had become impossible to deal with. Take that deflowerment just now— Fanny had made such a fuss about it! Webster would have gladly volunteered for it, if he had had the right credentials…

“It’s only a month until Christmas,” Webster said disapprovingly. “Only a fool would enroll his child into a school now. It would be better to wait until the new year.” 

“Maybe they need to get rid of him now,” Lytton said. Lytton was the tallest of them and very laconic. He rarely spoke but when he did, he usually talked sense. 

“The carriage did look rich,” Webster acknowledged. “Not some dog cart hired from the village. I wonder if he’ll be — _suitable_.”

“For our cult, you mean?” Fanny asked eagerly. Webster winced. 

“It’s not a _cult_ , Fanny,” he said admonishingly, “unless you mean in the ancient way, of enlightened people exploring forbidden mysteries.”

“As you say,” Fanny sighed. His bright head drooped and Webster thought it really wouldn’t do to have Fanny be so very sad. So he clasped Fanny’s chin and forced him to look at him.

“Cheer up, dear creature,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure your second time will be much better than your first.”

It was then Fanny hit him. Lytton stepped backward quickly and declined to become involved, so Webster was forced to shift for himself. 

*

Webster dreamed of flying, as he did most nights. He floated up above his bed and looked down at himself, frowning and asleep. As he reached out to the ceiling, Webster felt a tug of a silver string. It was tied to his little finger and went down to his slumbering body. This was a new development. The farther he drifted, the more the string stretched. 

Webster shrugged and moved on. He swooped down to Fanny’s side of the room and tickled his cheeks. Fanny, deeply asleep, brushed off his touch with an indistinct murmur. 

Then Webster let himself float up and up, through the ceiling and a roof. He had no body to speak of; he supposed he was merely a soul. The wind spun him around, but he discovered that if he really put his mind to a place, he could go there quickly. 

The silver string around his fingers stretched, through he noticed that it became thinner and thinner the farther afield he went. First, he went home — or rather, the place he had spent the first twelve years of his life, in Captain Amos’ house. It was a tumbled-down old place, built on top of a cliff, the sea raging below it. Webster caught hold of the railing on the widow’s walk and anchored himself enough to move inside the house.

Inside, all was silent, as he knew it would be. The grandfather clock had stopped without him being there to wind it. The Captain snoozed beside the ruins of a fire, his face still red with drink. 

Captain Amos was not Webster’s father and had never tried to be. He had married Webster’s poor consumptive mother when her husband had failed to return from the sea — then the next year, she had followed him in death. All that remained was the child Webster and the wreck of an old sea-captain. Webster had essentially fended for himself until it was time to send him to school, at age twelve. 

Webster sighed and turned away from the sad scene. He wondered if he had enough time to go to the city and see some gay sights before he woke up. But something stopped him. With a shiver, he realized that someone was holding his string. 

There was a figure next to the fireplace, which resolved itself into the shape of a young man with bright red hair and a fox-like face. Webster’s silver string was tangled up in the stranger’s fingers.

“Let that go!” Webster said strongly, but the boy only shrugged. He took out a pair of scissors from his pocket and pressed the edge against the string. When Webster rushed at him, he stepped aside easily.

“If this string should break, your body would die,” he said, and met Webster’s eyes with a bright smile. His own eyes were very green. Or where they blue? Webster could not quite tell. “And your poor little soul would just grow tattered in the wind. I’d be careful if I were you, Webster.”

“How did you know my name?” Webster asked. No one else had ever spoken to him in dreams like this. It had been like he was a ghost. 

“Never mind that,” said the redheaded stranger. “Time to wake up.”

He cut the string as Webster shouted and opened his eyes to see Fanny’s worried face looking down at him.

“Thank God you’re awake,” Fanny said. “I’ve been shaking you for the last minute. We’re going to miss the prayer meeting.” 

“Bother the prayer meeting,” Webster said, pulling his blanket over his head. He felt as though he hadn’t slept a wink. But Fanny wouldn’t let it go — and though Webster knew it was because York would tax Fanny about his absence, his irritation didn’t stop. Finally, he got up and went to the wash bowl to clear the sleep from his eyes. 

Fanny was already down by the time Webster was dressed. Lytton was waiting for them both in the chapel. 

The morning sermon was boring and endless, as always. Headmaster Shaw droned on and on about the importance of submission to God, while Webster struggled to keep his eyes open. It was only when Fanny poked him with an elbow that he jerked awake, just in time to hear Shaw mention that the school would be receiving a new student.

The Hawthorne School had once been the home of a very rich and ostentatious man with thirteen children — each child had had their own expansive room. Nowadays, the rooms were split between two or three boarders, depending on their ages. Webster had shared a room with Fanny since the latter’s arrival at the school, four years ago. 

Together, the two of them had devised a way of living that was almost tolerable. Webster wondered if the new student would disturb the balance — on a practical note, he and Fanny were the last two-person room. Lytton, poor boy, had to share with two others. 

Then the prayer meeting finally ended, and they could go to breakfast. Webster promised himself that one day, when he was free from this school, he would never eat another bowl of gruel. 

Unhappily, he poked the gruel with his spoon and said to Fanny, “You would think with the massive tuition they charge our families, they’d be able to give us better food.”

“You don’t like shapeless sludge?” Fanny said innocently as he sucked at his spoon. He closed his eyes for a moment wistfully. “I would love to have a bit of honey.” 

Webster wrinkled his nose. “You’re such a glutton, Fanny. Look at Lytton, he doesn’t complain.” 

They both turned their attention to Lytton, who had finished his gruel without any fuss. Webster marveled at his friend’s apparent serenity. It must be so soothing to have no major issues with anything around him. He wished he could be like that, sometimes. At other times, it seemed like a terrible bore. 

Their first lesson for the day was with Mlle Limoges, who taught them French. Mlle Limoges was a very pretty woman of about thirty-five. Her past was a mystery to everyone, but no one dared question her about it. Some of the boys claimed to be extravagantly in love with Mlle Limoges, but certainly no one took notice of it, at least not the lady in question. 

Their next class was mathematics with Mr. York, who was in a temper that morning. A ripple of amusement ran through the students as soon as he entered the classroom. Mr. York was an Englishman — a distinguished one, according to the headmaster — but today he looked as though he had been attacked by a rogue barber. His face was cut up most shockingly, though most of the major cuts had been hastily plastered. He glared at the students, daring them to say anything.

Webster’s hand shot up. “Sir, sir, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Not now, Webster,” said Mr. York impatiently. “I’ve got to introduce our new student. Henry Francis, where did you go?” 

“I’m here, sir,” said a voice directly behind Mr. York. The man started and whipped around, but Francis had already drawn forward with a little smile. 

He was the same boy who had been in Webster’s dream, though the cold light of day had leached away some of the brightness of his hair and the strange vulpine angles of his face. He seemed almost ordinary. And yet, he took in the scene with an attitude of a conqueror surveying his new lands. When his eyes fell upon Webster, his smile deepened.

Webster felt a strange flutter in his chest. He could not tell if it was fear or something more complicated.


	2. First Meetings

Fanny had a letter to read. Webster had gone to pieces after mathematics and wouldn’t explain why, but it wasn’t Fanny’s duty to soothe him. Webster wouldn’t want Fanny’s comfort anyway. 

The fact that he had been in love with his roommate for quite some time was a source of consternation for Fanny. He knew Webster didn’t care for him in that way, but he couldn’t help it. There was some mad part of him that longed, that pined and hoped for one day when Webster would look at him with adoration in his eyes, when Webster would tell him how simply wonderful he was. 

Fanny sighed and clutched his sister’s letter to his chest. He had slunk off to the stables after lunch to read it, but now he was just thinking — useless things. At least the horses wouldn’t judge him for it. The stables were a rather malodorous place of refuge, but the loft, where the hay was kept, was often the most peaceful place in the school. 

It was there he settled in and opened the letter. As always, Charlotte had sent a nice sweetmeat with a fat letter that detailed every single happening on the farm, as well as the surrounding countryside and town, since she had last written to him. Charlotte was a comprehensive and humorous writer — Fanny had often told her she ought to write a book, but she had always said that she would only tackle that challenge when she became a confirmed spinster. 

Father was well; Mother was well, though she and the baby had been low with fever earlier that week. Neddy, Bob, Xerxes, Sally and Cynara were all well. Fanny’s mare, Byrnhild, had a new foal that they were going to name Sigurd. 

All was well at Lower Wolfsnare.

Fanny sighed, satisfied, before he heard a noise downstairs. He stilled, careful not to make a sound, but it did no good. Someone was climbing the ladder up to the loft and he would be caught skipping his Latin practice.

“Oh, hello!” said a bright voice. It was Henry Francis, the new student. All Fanny could see of him was his red hair and then the rest of his face. There was the beginning of a black eye on him. Francis gave him a timid sort of smile. “Do you mind company?”

“What in the world happened to you?” Fanny blurted out. He scrambled to help Francis up the rest of the way. Francis clutched at his arm for a moment and seemed to sway.

“Your classmates like to play rough,” Francis said ruefully. Fanny frowned and tried to find a clean handkerchief to give to him, but all of them were crumpled in some way. But still, Francis accepted the cleanest one with a gracious smile.

“Some of them can be total brutes, I’m sorry. Especially that odious brat Spore,” Fanny said as he guided Francis over to where he had been sitting. It was not as chilly there as the rest of the loft. Nonetheless, sitting by Francis’ side, it seemed to him that the air grew warmer.

He flushed when he realized Francis was looking at him from under a sweep of dark lashes. “I think it was that one. The headmaster’s son?”

“Oh yes, that’s him,” Fanny said grimly.

“I hope some of the boys are kind,” Francis said with a shy smile. 

“Well, it is a boys' school,” Fanny said, a little apologetically. “They don’t encourage kindness here. Interferes too much with discipline, you know.” 

“I do know,” Francis said, with a wince. “My father is a very strict disciplinarian himself. Indeed, I think he sent me here to teach me a lesson. Or he didn’t know what else to do with me.” 

Fanny nodded. He was vaguely surprised at the depth and quickness of Francis’ confidences, but surely the world had room for people with open hearts. “I think a lot of the boys are here for the same reason. My friend, Webster, is an orphan and his guardian seems at quite a loss over him.” 

“Webster’s the one who was sleeping at the assembly?” 

“Yes!” Fanny regretted his eagerness. It seemed a little disloyal. “He doesn’t usually do that. He slept badly last night. We’re roommates. I — don’t watch him sleep, it’s just —”

“No, I understand,” Francis said easily. He stretched out and yawned. “Being in such close quarters with someone, day in and day out, it’s easy to form attachments.” 

“Attachments,” Fanny echoed worriedly. “Why, yes, of course you mean friendships and all that.” 

“Yes, and all that,” Henry replied with a smile. Fanny got the notion that he was teasing him. 

“Webster doesn’t have an attachment with me, I assure you,” Fanny said with a nervous laugh. 

“Would you like an attachment, Fanny?” Francis asked him, and Fanny, distracted, wondered why on Earth he had failed to introduce himself as Nathaniel. Fanny was such a silly name, though he had had it from infancy on. 

“I don’t know,” Fanny finally confessed. But it was too late. Francis had leaned in and kissed him. To Fanny’s own surprise, he kissed Francis back. 

*

Webster frowned deeply at the clock on the wall of the library. Fanny was late. He’d been excited to receive a letter from home and had gone off to read it, but he knew that the cult — their magic study-group, that is — was to meet at the library before dinner. 

“Did he forget, the silly ass?” Webster demanded. He looked over to Lytton, who was sketching various forms of animal life in his book. Most of them seemed to be crabs. “Lytton, did you see him after lessons?”

“No,” Lytton said, barely looking up from the page. “Maybe he’s showing the new boy around.”

“Fanny? He wouldn’t dare, unless Shaw or York put him up to it. Fanny’s much too shy.”

“And here’s the library,” came a familiar voice from the hall. “It was part of the original house and was one of the reasons the first headmaster of the school — Stephen Hawthorne — thought it would be an appropriate place for a school. This was after the suicide of the original owner, Madison Guaranty, on the accidental death of seven of his thirteen children.” 

Fanny appeared at the door, with Francis at his elbow. Francis looked around approvingly before he said, doubtfully, “What sort of accident was that?”

“A house fire,” replied Fanny. “The kitchen and dining room caught fire on Christmas. They had to rebuild the entire wing when Hawthorne made the house into a school.”

“What a horrific way to die!” Francis said cheerfully. “You’re very knowledgeable about this place. That can’t have been a part of your lessons, surely.”

“Oh, certainly not! It was Mr. Halifax’s passion. He — uh, mentored us a bit before he left. Especially Webster. Oh, there’s Webster now — and Lytton. Hello.” Fanny approached their table with a hopeful smile. Francis’ steps were slower, his smile more cynical. 

Fanny bent down and lowered his voice, as if they were in any danger of being overhead in the empty library. “Francis knows. He wants to join our cult.”

“Absolutely not,” Webster said, standing up. “I can’t believe you, Fanny! Bringing a stranger among us. You’ve gone too far this time.”

“But just last night you said he could be suitable,” Fanny said, his smile fading. 

“There’s a difference between thinking so and inviting him into our intimate circle.” 

“Why do you want to join us?” Lytton asked seriously. “To be frank, we’ve had no success in summoning any demons or casting any spells.”

“Lytton!” Webster said, feeling deeply betrayed. Lytton shrugged. Francis reached out and plucked away the book Webster had been puzzling over the entire time. 

“I can show you how to cast spells that would dazzle and transform you,” Francis promised them. In the dim light of the old library, he seemed brighter and more compelling than he had before. Webster thought uneasily about his dream. He was about to say something, decline Francis’ offer of — whatever he was offering, when yet another group of boys trooped into the library.

“There they are,” said Telesphorus Shaw — everyone called him Spore, much to his intense dislike. Spore was sixteen and would have been odious even if he wasn’t the headmaster’s son, which he was. No one could exactly discipline him without the headmaster and his wife getting involved. Mr. Halifax had tried and received notice for his troubles.

Now Spore swaggered into the library followed by his posse of sycophants. “I suppose it’s to be expected that the freak would join Polifax’s group of misfits and idiots. No one else would.”

Webster sprang up and stalked towards Spore. “What did you say, you odious little toad? Polifax’s group?”

“That’s what you take issue with?” Fanny whisper-shouted, coming up behind Webster and looming over him. Webster hated when Fanny did that— it wasn’t fair that Fanny was taller than him. “He’s calling us all misfits and freaks.”

“Why would Spore even bother trying to bully Francis?” Webster snapped back at him. “There’s no reason for it.”

“There is a reason! There is!” Spore said excitedly and then remembered himself. 

He cleared his throat. “My father says that no other school in New England would take Henry Francis in — because he’s the son of the Devil himself!”

Spore pointed to Francis, who stood up from the chair that he had been sitting in since Webster had abandoned it. He pressed a hand on his bosom and bowed slightly. He seemed to enjoy the feeling of everyone’s eyes upon him.

“It’s true,” he said lightly. “My father is the Devil. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

It was then Mr. York came into the library and scattered them, for it was almost dinner time, even if the Devil’s progeny was now among them.


	3. The Devil's Progeny

When Webster tiredly tramped up to bed, he was greeted with the sight of everything in the room being put off kilter, as there was an extra bed and trunk near the fireplace. Francis was sitting there, chatting happily with Fanny.

“What are you doing here?” Webster demanded, though it was clear what Francis was doing. Both Fanny and Francis merely looked at him.

Webster huffed unhappily and started changing for bed. He heard the sound of whispering, and then the rustle of bedclothes and then giggles. When he whipped around to see what was happening, he found that Francis and Fanny were poring over a scrapbook Fanny kept of his time at school. 

“You preserve every letter you receive from your family and make copies of the ones you send?” Francis said thoughtfully. “I’m sure it’ll be of historical interest one day.” 

Fanny blushed pink. “Only if I make something of myself. As it is, I doubt anyone but my family will be interested.” 

“Fanny,” Webster said with a loud whisper. “How can you sit there and drone on about your damned diary when you have that hellspawn right there with you?”

Francis laughed. “Headmaster Shaw feels free to speak ill of my father in front of his son, but he took our money readily enough. My father’s a dissenter, not the Devil.”

“A dissenter?” Fanny asked curiously. “What of?” 

“Of the divinity of God,” Francis said solemnly. 

Webster scoffed and turned back into his bed, wrapping his blanket over his head. “Oh. Forget it, Nat. He’s just an Anabaptist.”

“My family’s Methodist,” Fanny said earnestly. “Webster says he is an agnostic. Lytton says he believes in Nature, red in tooth and claw.”

“You are an interesting bunch,” Francis said. “I wish you would all call me Henry. It seems too cold to call everyone by their last names.” 

“I don’t need to be warm towards you,” Webster snapped. 

“I’m not even sure what Webster’s name is,” Fanny said with a laugh.

“It’s Gabriel, I believe,” Henry said easily. 

“Oh!” Fanny said, surprised. 

There was a knock at the door, and Ginger, one of their classmates, poked his head into the room and asked Fanny to come along. One of the younger boys was saying he had seen the demon wolf on the stairs again. 

The demon wolf was one of the most enduring legends at the school — every year, someone would see a red-eyed wolf at the bottom of the stairs. The legend went that a wolf had once bounded inside the house and had been killed by one of the original owner’s sons. The wolf had died, but its spirit lingered on. 

Demonic wolf or no, Fanny was usually able to settle unhappy boys, having had so many brothers and sisters of his own. Webster barely noticed him going, even though Fanny asked him, loudly and annoyingly, to come. 

“I’ve nothing to say to you,” Webster said coldly, and Fanny deflated and left. Henry was watching the whole scene with obvious pleasure. When the door closed behind Fanny and Ginger, Webster turned his ire to him. 

“We summoned you, didn’t we? You’re a demon.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Henry said, stretching out his long limbs over his bed. He put his arms behind his head and sighed. “I’m an ordinary human boy.” 

Webster got up from his bed and approached him. It was piercingly cold in the room, as the fire had dwindled down to nothing and they would not get more firewood until the morning. For nights like this, he’d often shared a bed with Fanny, to keep warm, but now Webster was filled with a different sort of fire. 

Henry was watching him, his green eyes as bright and as knowing as a cat’s. He hardly blinked when Webster splashed him with a vial of holy water. His skin — though freckled — did not smoulder or burn, though it did glisten in the dimness of the room. Henry didn’t even seem very angry — just amused. 

“Where did you get that holy water? Not from the chapel, I’m sure.” 

“I’m not telling you,” Webster replied. He had an understanding with one of the priests in the village, who thought Webster’s incessant questions were a sign of his interest in the priesthood. The holy water had been easy enough to obtain — which made him think it was in fact well-water — Webster was quite crestfallen to see it did no good. 

“How can you — you must be a demon,” he said, confused. Henry gestured for him to get into the bed. Webster, in his confusion, obeyed him. 

“You cast the spell because you wanted a wish,” Henry said soothingly. “Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

Webster felt his mouth open, against his will. In a strangled voice, he told Henry his heart’s desire.

*

When Fanny came back, he was crestfallen to discover the room was empty and the fire was out. He took out the tinder box from his trunk and tried to light it up again, but the cold made his hands shake. After a few minutes of fumbling, he finally got the kindling alight. He was surprised at the strength and light of the fire — surely there wasn’t enough firewood to sustain it. But at least he would be warm enough to go to bed. 

It was curious that neither Webster nor Henry had returned from wherever they’d gone. Well, if they got in trouble for being out of bed, it wasn’t Fanny’s fault. He changed into his bedclothes and settled in, falling asleep immediately. His dream was a pleasant one — he was on the gently rolling hills of his home, feeding an apple to Brynhild. 

The chestnut-colored horse swiped at his fingers with her tongue and Fanny laughed. Brynhild had even a stronger taste for sugar than he did. Eventually, she let him ride her down the hill and over the next, to the old folly that one of the landowners had built a hundred years ago. The notion of finding a Grecian temple deep in the Virginia woods was an absurd one, but here it was.

Standing outside the door of the temple was Henry Francis. He waited for Fanny to dismount and tie Brynhild to a tree. When Fanny came up to him, Henry reached out and brushed the hair from Fanny’s forehead.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and Fanny shook his head, not sure what he meant. Henry’s smile only seemed to widen. He took Fanny’s hand and led him into the temple.

To Fanny’s surprise, the inside of the temple was much larger than he remembered it — in his memories, it was just a small damp room — but now he looked out on a large and spacious hall, lit by the fire of many torches. It was filled with many laughing people, all clustered towards one end of the hall, where both the throne and altar were. 

They all seemed to fall silent as soon as he and Henry entered, and Fanny was conscious of many pairs of eyes following him. A path appeared in front of them, leading to a raised dais, where the stone throne was. Henry took him there and seated Fanny, and then slid in next to him. The chair was just wide enough to accommodate the two of them. 

“What is this?” Fanny asked nervously. All the people were looking at him so strangely, and he slowly realized that they were very strange-looking themselves. Some of them did not seem quite human, and many of them seemed to have dispersed with the notion of clothing and modesty at all.

Henry called for someone to bring the refreshments. A dark, sleek-looking boy came with a large brass plate filled with silvery-green grapes and bread so fresh that Fanny could see steam rising from it. There was also a pot of honey and soft white cheeses wrapped in leaves. The smell of it all made Fanny’s mouth water. It had been so long since he had had anything good. 

“Let’s eat before we talk,” Henry said, snagging a grape from the plate. The server huffed quietly, and for the first time Fanny noticed that the bottom part of the boy was that of a goat. He placed the meal in front of them on a small table and walked away, his curly black tail still twitching in irritation.

“Is he a satyr?” Fanny asked, his voice carrying too loudly through the space. Henry shook his head in disapproval.

“You ought not say such things here, Fanny. He has a name, everyone does. He is Cleon. He’ll serve you well if it’s earthly pleasures you want.” 

He reached out and dipped his finger into the pot of honey and licked it off, with a shiver of pleasure. Fanny couldn’t resist any longer. He broke off a piece of cheese and ate it wrapped in a hunk of bread. The cheese was salty and bright and the bread tasted warm in his mouth. He shuddered. 

“What is 'here'? Was Webster right — are you a demon?” Fanny demanded, trying to focus on the question at hand. Nonetheless, when Henry gave him a piece of bread dipped in honey, he ate like a starved thing.

“I’ve seen what you’re like,” Henry said candidly. “You’re not like Webster, who wants power and fame and money. You want to be loved and needed. You’ve built up your entire life so you can be of use to others.” 

Fanny blushed hot. “No. I’m — you must think I’m quite pathetic.”

“Not pathetic,” Henry replied. “Your wish is harder to grant than his, you know. Of course, you can _compel_ people to become overcome with lust, endure every humiliation to be near you, kill for you even. But — you can always tell it’s not real. There’s always a glint of hatred in their eyes. No creature with a soul wants to be forced.”

“I don’t — I don’t want any of that,” Fanny said. “I never would want anyone harmed for my sake.” 

His eyes were beginning to fill with tears. He felt so silly, crying at the moment the devil tempted him. He couldn’t possibly write to Charlotte or anyone else about it. He knew what she would choose — success and wealth as an author. His parents would choose safety and security for their living children, and success for the farm. Perhaps his mother would wish Charles, her firstborn son, to be alive again. Only Fanny was weak and foolish enough to just want to be _loved_. 

“I could… I could ask for something for everyone rather than just me. Wish for no more wars, that no one ever starved.” 

Henry shook his head. “No, my darling boy. Purely altruistic wishes wouldn’t work with us. Everything would twist into something worse, somehow.”

“Then I wouldn’t wish for anything,” Fanny replied, trying for resolve. Henry shook his head, apparently marveling at his choice.

But then he smiled. “Older and wiser people than you have tried and failed to resist. Oh Fanny, I am quite taken with you.”

“It’s been a single day,” Fanny pointed out.

“A single day might change the course of an empire.” Henry stood up and stretched. “I won’t make you choose just now. But perhaps I can be of use to you now. Would you like to have some fun with us?”

“What are you offering?” Fanny asked suspiciously. 

Henry snapped his fingers and two people stepped out from the crowd. One was an extraordinarily beautiful woman who seemed to Fanny to be shaped out of snow, so white and flawless was she. Her eyes were the palest blue, and watchful. When she saw him looking at her, she smiled, revealing a mouth with teeth as sharp as icicles. 

“Oh no,” Fanny said under his breath, but Henry heard him and laughed.

“Chione isn’t the one for you? Very well,” he said, and sent her away. 

A man had also stepped forward, and he was fiery as his companion was cold. His smoulder was not a metaphor; there was heat that rose from his skin and his eyes, and the intensity of which disturbed the air around him. He seemed to enjoy Fanny’s muted terror at watching him. 

“Oh, this one won’t do either?” Henry sighed. He was about to snap his fingers again when Fanny stopped him. 

“What were you going to make them do? I thought you said that no creature with a soul wants to be forced. And I wouldn’t …” He swallowed loudly and said more strongly, “I wouldn’t force anyone.” 

“Dear boy,” Henry said, his approval apparent and somehow vaguely humiliating. “These wretches have no soul to speak of, you needn’t worry.” 

“Why are you —” Fanny’s voice sank. “Why are you being so cruel? I don’t like you like this.” 

Henry seemed to soften at that, but Fanny no longer trusted him — he had been a fool to trust him at all. It had just been — it had been so wonderful to have someone who saw him so clearly and so well. Fanny had lost his head over it. Webster had been right, he always did that. 

When Henry leaned in and kissed him, Fanny pushed him away. Henry frowned, his disappointment turning his handsome face briefly less human. “You’re thinking of that idiot boy, aren’t you? You want him here as well? We can do that.”

He snapped his fingers, and the ground opened up and Webster appeared. He looked the same as he had done that evening, except he had a blindfold tied over his eyes. At his appearance, the crowd around them shrieked and hooted, stamping their feet. Webster whirled around wildly, shouting. 

Henry watched the proceedings with a smile, and then dismissed everyone else until they were alone in the hall — just himself, Fanny and Webster.

“Shit,” Fanny said, almost to himself. He glared at Henry and said, “If you’re trying to tempt me, this won’t work.” 

“I think we’ll have a new game now and try temptation next time,” Henry said with an arrogant smile that suited him altogether too well.

When Fanny reached out and slapped him, he blinked, surprised. 

“You hit me,” he said, incredulously. 

“Of course I did, you were being an ass,” Fanny replied, avoiding his eyes. 

“No one’s raised their hand to me in anger in centuries,” Henry marveled. He touched his cheek experimentally, as if he expected it to burst into flames. 

“So you are a demon, then,” Fanny said lamely. He didn’t like the thought of Henry being so old. 

“Well, this body’s human enough,” Henry replied. “Made a deal with me and lost, poor boy. I like it.” 

“Where am I?” Webster demanded. “Fanny? Is that you?” 

“Oh, I forgot about him,” Henry said with a sigh. With a rush of guilt, Fanny realized that he’d done the same. 

“You must let him go,” Fanny said hastily, to cover his guilt. Webster had collapsed on the floor, his arms over his head. He, Fanny realized, was having a nightmare. 

“No,” Henry said firmly. “Webster has entered into an agreement with me. And I must respect that. Demons care deeply about choice.” 

Fanny looked at him skeptically. Henry laughed.

“It’s perfectly true. If the damned didn’t choose to enter into an agreement with the legions of Hell, then where would we be?”

“I don’t want to be damned,” Fanny said. “It seems an awful burden.” 

“Sometimes it can be quite pleasant, I assure you,” Henry said with a wicked grin. He reached out and lifted Fanny’s chin with his finger. “Will you let me kiss you, Fanny?”

“What would you do if I said no?”

“You would wake up in the morning, cold and unsatisfied, forced to eat gruel.”

“I would have to eat gruel anyway,” Fanny groused. Henry dipped a finger into the pot of honey and licked it off. 

“You can still remember the taste of honey,” Henry said. When he leaned in to kiss Fanny, he found no objections.

Fanny’s eyes closed for a moment and he sighed, before his eyes flew open. “Wait,” he said, before Henry could deepen the kiss. 

“What,” said Henry, with a demonic flash of his eyes.

“I want Webster to be — I don’t want him to be afraid. I want to help him.” 

Henry waved his hand in Webster’s direction. “Be my guest. It’ll do no good, you see.” 

Fanny ignored him and approached Webster, who was rolling back and forth on the floor. He reached out toward him and thought better of it, choosing instead to speak. “Webster, it’s me. Fanny.”

Webster stopped moving. He dropped his arms to his sides and said, cautiously, “Fanny, is that really you?”

“Yes,” Fanny said, getting on his knees. He reached out to untie Webster’s blindfold, but Henry’s voice rang out.

“That stays.”

Webster embraced Fanny tightly and asked, an edge of frantic worry in his voice, “Is it dark where you are, Fanny? It’s dark here. Frightfully dark.”

“It is —” Fanny hesitated. “Can you believe we actually summoned a real demon?”

“It’s awful,” Webster said. “I hate him.” 

Fanny nodded before he realized that of course Webster couldn’t see him. He was going to speak when he felt himself being pushed gently away from Webster by many invisible hands. Frantically, he grabbed Webster’s hand and held tight.

“What’s going on?” Webster asked, frightened. 

“It’s all right,” Henry said as the hands stripped off Fanny’s clothes. He crouched down, his eyes shimmering with devilish delight. “We will have a delightful time. Fanny here will, anyway.”

“I’ve yet to see it,” Fanny said. “You keep threatening me with a good time and I’ve yet to experience it.”

“Don’t,” Webster said, pressing his face against the crook of Fanny’s shoulder. 

Henry chuckled and snapped his fingers. Fanny’s clothes disappeared as if they had never existed. Fanny blushed and tried to cover himself, to little effect. 

When Henry touched him, Fanny found himself leaning towards the touch. There was warmth here that his first time had utterly lacked. When Henry kissed him, it almost seemed that he loved him, as silly as that might be.

Even when Webster reached for him and caught his hand and whispered alarmed warnings to him, Fanny didn’t quite attend. It was far too easy to be swept away.

“I’m going to wake up soon,” Fanny said as Henry was kissing down his chest, his hands going ahead to caress Fanny’s cock. 

“It won’t matter,” Henry told him tenderly, as he slithered down and pressed a kiss on the tip of Fanny’s cock, which was already half-hard in his hands. 

Fanny’s breathing grew shallow as he watched Henry take his cock into his mouth. He had thought of doing such a thing with Webster so many times, but it had always been some strange fancy. To see it now was — 

He felt the ground shaking. Tentatively he reached for Henry’s hair, intending to pull him away. But then he felt a terrible jerk and he was on the ground. It was morning and he had awoken, still hard and bewildered at the current state of the world.


	4. Carcinization

Lytton had never been the most expressive of boys.

His closest friends, Webster and Fanny, tended to take over the business of reacting to things. Lytton didn’t mind it at all — to be perfectly frank, he found some of his friends’ antics to be quite exhausting. Take, for example, the condition both Fanny and Webster had presented themselves in for the last few days — both of them were distracted and in a temper, their skins marked with scratches and strange bite marks. Webster seemed especially feverish. 

When Lytton had ventured a question about their condition, both of them had refused to talk about it. But Lytton was no fool. He knew the fault no doubt lay with his friends’ new roommate, Henry Francis.

Henry Francis had very briefly made overtures into Lytton’s interests as well, even to the point of appearing in Lytton’s dreams. Those dreams almost always involved Lytton walking down the seashore near his home and then, slowly and deliberately, walking into the sea until the water swallowed him up.

He didn’t drown — instead, he floated on in a state of perfect happiness. It took him some time to realize he had taken the form of a crab. That was very satisfactory to him; Lytton was rather fond of crabs. He would have been content to crawl under the surface of the oceans forever, but he heard a polite cough above him. It was Henry Francis, at which Lytton, in his crab-like state, could evince no surprise.

Straightforwardly, he asked: _You’ve come to make a bargain with me?_

“Exactly so,” Henry Francis said, floating down to the bottom of the ocean to rest gently beside Lytton. “What would you like most of all, John?”

_Shouldn’t you know?_

“I know of several possibilities. Wealth. Power. Love. Unlimited fish. But I wonder if any of that will work for you.” 

_Not really, no._

“Fair enough,” Henry said, reaching out and stroking the top of Lytton’s shell. Lytton nipped at him with his claws. 

_I’d like understanding of the natural world, if you’d please. Especially the oceans._

“All right,” Henry said with a snap of his fingers. 

_All right. So I’ll have to sign over my soul then? There’s no other option?_

Henry seemed to consider this. “What else can you offer me?” 

_I’ve nothing to offer; I don’t own anything._

“That’s true,” Henry mused. “The lot of you don’t have much in the way of spiritual wealth.” 

_Do you feel guilt for taking my soul for this? If you do, that’s your problem, not mine._

Henry sighed sharply. “It’s not possible for me to feel guilt. All right, let’s agree to this: I’ll grant your wish and you will owe me a favor in the future. Is that acceptable?”

_I suppose._

Lytton wasn’t surprised to see that Henry didn’t stay long after their agreement. The depths of the ocean seemed to make him uneasy, which was not the case for Lytton, who could not have been more delighted by his new state of affairs.

When he woke up in the morning, he was almost disappointed to see that he was still a boy and not a crab at all. Perhaps it was just as well that he hadn’t bargained away his soul for it. 


	5. Fevers & Expectations

Webster had spent the last few days in a fever of exhaustion. Every night he fell asleep and dreamed the most frightful things. There was no relief. It started as soon as he closed his eyes. When he sought to avoid sleep altogether, he was only able to put it off for so long. 

He took to spending the night at the library — if he had to deal with Henry Francis in his dreams, he had no desire to see him in waking life as well. Webster was in a state of considerable agitation when Fanny came upon him, trying to find a comfortable place to sleep among the stacks. 

“Webster, what are you doing here?” Fanny looked worried about him, but Webster could not believe him to be sincere. Didn’t the demon favor him? Fawn over him, in fact? Why should he ever care for Webster again?

“You’ve come to report my condition to your lover,” Webster growled, showing his teeth. Fanny, who had been reaching for him, took a step back. 

“I’m not — he’s not my lover,” Fanny said, his voice uncertain. Then his expression hardened. It was an odd thing to see, Webster thought. He was so used to thinking of Fanny as nice and ineffectual that he had forgotten Fanny wasn’t that way at all — that had always been Webster’s illusion.

“We were friends, I thought,” Fanny said. “Pardon me if I misunderstood.”

He turned away to leave when Webster stopped him. Webster’s mouth went faster than his brain. He found himself confessing to Fanny his fears, his torments in the last few days. Every moment he closed his eyes, his soul was pulled from his body and he was forced to work on behalf of Henry Francis. His task was a grim one. He would watch others — people, he understood implicitly, who had also accepted the demon’s offer — and each and every one of those wretched creatures suffered.

“I’ve seen such things in the last few days that would drive anyone mad,” Webster said. Fanny had drawn closer to him and embraced him. Webster did not fight it, as he had often done before. Instead, he began to cry, as a child would do. Such was the depth of his fear that he did not mind it.

“We'll find a way to break this curse,” Fanny said. “I promise you, Gabriel.” 

“Ugh, don’t call me by that name,” Webster cried. “That was my father’s name and Captain Amos would call for him when he was in his cups. Webster’s all I am.” 

“Webster, then,” Fanny said with a small smile. “Don’t despair just yet.”

*

“That little rat,” said Henry Francis, as he dangled a plump little mouse in front of the kitchen cat. Princess Katherine, an enormous black cat with a white blaze upon her chest, swiped eagerly at her prize, but Henry always pulled back enough so her claws would catch on nothing. 

Henry sighed loudly. He often wondered why his father insisted that he come among humans and learn how to beguile them. It took little enough effort, and the rewards were small as well. 

Of course, the answer was that his father knew that well and thought Henry ought to be brought down a peg or two. Of his father’s many sons, Henry Francis knew himself to be the least favored and most suspected of disloyalty. 

But the truth of it was that Henry had never betrayed his father, though he often thought him wrong and cruel. 

Now, if it was up to him, Henry would leave both this tiresome little school and his father’s expectations behind. Perhaps Fanny could come with him, but only if he promised to be good and tractable. But Henry already knew that Fanny would not be either of those things — and despite himself, Henry grinned to himself. Fanny had been something of a surprise to him. At first glance, he had seemed simple enough — a credulous and naive boy, eager for approval. And he was that — but he was also so much more than Henry had supposed. 

Henry thought, a little wistfully, it wouldn’t be so bad to show Fanny the world. But that was impossible. With another great sigh, he threw the mouse away and the cat raced to get it. But before her hungry mouth could close on its flesh, the mouse disappeared. The cat yowled in fury.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall.


	6. Here We Come, A-Caroling

It was a school tradition that the best-behaved boys of every year would be taken into the town of Merrymount to go caroling with the young ladies at the Sarah Goode School for Young Gentlewomen. The methods of choosing the best-behaved was suspect — after all, Spore was among them.

Neither Lytton (due to disinterest) nor Webster (due to illness) were able to come along this year, and so Fanny and Henry Francis were the sole representatives of the graduating class. 

Fanny enjoyed the opportunity to leave the school and see new faces. But the young ladies at Sarah Goode were sophisticated creatures, used to elevated conversation. Fanny quickly realized that he was entirely unequipped to contribute to such conversation. 

Fortunately, his new friend, Henry Francis, had no such problems. He had taken Miss Smith, the girls’ chaperone, by the arm as their group trooped through Merrymount’s most exclusive street. Their conversation was about — art? The condition of the human soul? Could it be the price of sprigged muslin? 

Fanny couldn’t tell. The girl who was walking beside him — introduced as Miss Cordelia Napier — seemed not to be attending either. After they had charmed the first house with a spirited rendition of “Angels We Have Heard On High”, they moved to another house. Miss Napier stumbled over a rock and fell behind the group, and Fanny waited with her. Henry Francis shot a sharp look backwards at him before Miss Smith claimed his attention once again. The group disappeared behind a holly bush. 

“Listen,” Miss Napier said quietly. “If we take the path there, we could get back to my school in ten minutes. The first people to come back from caroling get drinking chocolate and shortbread.”

Fanny wondered what about him made her think that he would accept such an offer. He glanced downward and sighed. 

Of course he accepted.

During their walk —on a path flanked by dense evergreen bushes on either side of enormous houses — Miss Napier regaled him with the gossip from her school, and he replied with relevant stories from his school. He was intrigued to learn that Sarah Goode had also received a beguiling new student in the form of Miss Moffat, who charmed everyone with her sweetness and golden curls. 

“Of course, she’s a witch. We all are, after all,” said Miss Napier, as if it was obvious. Fanny stared at her.

“You’re all witches?” he said. “But how could that be?”

She looked back at him in surprise. “What else would we be? It’s the Sarah Goode School, after all. Doesn’t Hawthorne teach you anything about summoning demons?”

“No!” Fanny exclaimed. “Why, if they had …” _I wouldn't be in such a mess now!_

“You’re having problems with demons at the school, then?” Miss Napier asked politely. There was an unholy light in her dark brown eyes. “Well, perhaps I can help…” 

*

Despite their best efforts, Fanny and Miss Napier returned late to the school. Everyone looked at them askance, but Henry Francis emerged from a cloud of feminine admiration and handed each of them a steaming cup of drinking chocolate. “Everyone thought you two had run off together, but I believed in your gallantry, Fanny.”

“Miss Napier had trouble with her shoe and had to walk back slowly,” Fanny explained, his face burning in embarrassment. 

“Cordelia!” exclaimed the famous Miss Moffat, coming up and taking Miss Napier’s hand. “I was worried sick over you, my darling. If you had gone off, my heart would break.”

“I would never leave you so, Ethelene,” Miss Napier replied. She whispered something into Miss Moffat’s ear, and they both looked at Fanny and Henry Francis and giggled.

Henry slung an arm around Fanny’s shoulder and said, confidentially, “I really do think that the girls’ school is very much ahead of the boys' in terms of encouraging the magical arts.”

“Why didn’t you go over there then?” Fanny demanded. Henry shrugged. 

“I wasn’t needed,” Henry replied with a charming smile. It was then Mr. York and Miss Smith came in with alarming news — it seemed as though the snow had increased at an alarming rate and they were all now in the midst of a blizzard. The boys could not be expected to return to their school at this rate. 

“We’ll have to ask some of the families who delighted in your caroling this evening if they can put some of you up,” said Mr. York. He pointed to Fanny and Henry. “You two will be housed at the old Lewis house.” 

Fanny blanched at that. Everyone knew that the Lewis house was the most haunted house in Merrymount. But Henry took his hand and cheerfully accepted on his behalf. Fanny couldn’t make a fuss, not now when everyone was already so inconvenienced. 

*

The Lewis house had been built at the same time as the Hawthorne School, but had remained the home of the Lewis family until the last of them, a man named George Lewis, had died in an extreme state in his bed, some thirty years ago. The house had been left largely empty after that — no one was about to stay there for more than one night. 

Even so, once the house was opened and the fire was lit, Fanny looked around in wonder. The mansion was still quite beautiful, from the carved angel alighting from the newel post to the marble floors — even if most of the furniture was covered in white sheets. 

Before setting forth to their lodgings, they had been issued a hamper of food adequate for dinner and breakfast. The caretaker of the house — who adamantly did not spend nights at the house — had provided them with firewood and clean sheets. 

“Should we make a love nest in front of the fire, or investigate some of the upper chambers?” Henry Francis said cheerfully. Fanny coughed to cover his surprise. 

“I still don’t understand why Mr. York thought only we should stay here. There’s lots of room. There’s nothing but room here.” Fanny looked at Henry accusingly. “Are you to blame?” 

“I?” Henry said, feigning innocence. “Certainly not. No one wants to stay here, dear boy. It’s supposed to be frightfully haunted.”

Fanny threw himself on to the armchair in front of the fire with a gusty sigh. “What are ghosts to a demon?” 

Henry sat on the floor, at Fanny’s foot. He had a strange, rather quizzical look on his face. It reminded Fanny of his pet cat, who was too proud a creature to demand pets, but if Fanny’s hand should rest on his head for a moment, it would not be disagreeable. 

Cautiously, Fanny placed a hand on the top of Henry’s head. Henry gave a sigh of contentment and leaned forward eagerly. “What were we talking about?” he asked, his voice like a purr. 

“I don’t know,” Fanny confessed. “Uh — ghosts?”

“Oh. Most of the things people call ghosts are just shades — pathetic remnants of humanity, hardly worth considering. Most of the really bad hauntings are caused by —” Henry paused and put a finger to his lips. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say. Hell has a tight leash on who should know what. I wouldn’t want to upset my father.”

“He sounds like an oppressive creature.”

“Oh! You don’t know the half of it,” Henry said eagerly before he composed himself. 

“It’s hard to think of a demon having a father,” Fanny mused. He found that he enjoyed thinking of these things, with a person who would not think him rude or impious. Daringly, he said, “Unless you mean God?” 

Henry smiled. “I’m flattered you think me so old and powerful! But no, I was not one of those who fell from Heaven. Though my father was. Perhaps one day you’ll meet him.” 

Fanny shuddered. “I don’t think that would be a good thing for me.”

“No,” Henry said agreeably. “Well! Do you want supper before you sleep, Fanny? Or are you afraid of having nightmares?”

Fanny’s growling stomach answered _that_ question. “I’m a growing boy, after all,” said Fanny, blushing hard.

“Always hungry,” Henry agreed with a smile. 

After a supper of cloth-wrapped sandwiches and the queer cherry cordial that Henry had provided them with — the sweet and wild taste of which lingered on Fanny’s tongue — they agreed to go exploring.

The ground floor of the mansion held the parlor, where they had had supper, and then the library and another sitting room. The dining room was still set for a grand party, though each place setting was under an inch of dust. 

They navigated through the darkness of the house with an oil lantern. No matter how long they took, Fanny noticed that the level of the oil never dipped. 

Finally, it was time to go upstairs. “That’s where the ghosts would be, if they should be here,” Henry said cheerfully as he mounted the first steps. He laid his hand briefly on the angel’s wing before he offered it to Fanny. “Will you dare it, dear Fanny?”

Fanny nodded. He was afraid of many things but ghosts weren’t one of them. At least, he thought this was so. 

The Lewis house was built in the Classical Revival style of the last century, and its crown jewel was the grand staircase which led upwards to the family quarters. At the top of the mahogany staircase was an oil painting of a fair and handsome man in his early twenties. He seemed to look at the two of them with dreamy eyes, half-shut with sleep.

“That was old George Lewis, the profligate gambler who lost his entire fortune on a game of cards,” Henry said solemnly. He walked over to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. “This is where he died alone.” 

Fanny entered the room and looked around. Henry went over to the fireplace and set upon lighting it. 

“Why do you know so much about George Lewis?” Fanny asked. “Did you take his soul as well?”

“No,” Henry said, reaching out and taking a handful of papers and feeding them to the fire. “Old George did it all himself. He’s telling me all this — can’t you see him? He’s right behind you.”


	7. Long Night

Fanny whirled around. But of course he could see nothing at all. “Where is he? Is he still here?”

“It doesn’t matter about him, the silly ass,” Henry said. The dust, disturbed by their presence, had begun to rise in earnest. Fanny began to cough. 

Henry straightened up and sighed. “I enjoyed the spooky atmosphere, but I don’t want you to get smothered with all this dust.” 

He snapped his fingers and suddenly the gloomy, half-ruined room was brightly lit and clean. The bed had fresh linens and the fire burned merrily in the grate.

Fanny couldn’t believe how completely the atmosphere had changed. The whole day had begun to weigh on him, and he wanted nothing more than to jump into the bed — which looked so soft and inviting — and go to sleep. But there was one problem. He looked over at Henry Francis, who had begun to undress himself as a matter of course.

“Could I — um, if you don’t mind terribly, I’d like to sleep alone. Here.” Fanny looked down at the floor, afraid that otherwise his gaze would be fixed on Henry’s groin. 

“You’re banishing me to the cold and dark? Fanny, I didn’t expect this from you,” Henry said, his voice amused.

Fanny shook his head sharply and said, “You’re quite right. I have to go downstairs anyway and see to the fire. I’ll sleep there.”

“Fanny,” Henry said gently. He approached Fanny as if the latter was some kind of wild animal, his posture open and inviting. When he touched Fanny’s face, Fanny did his best not to flinch away, but that act was noticed by Henry.

“Why are you so afraid of me?” Henry said softly. “I want nothing but the best for you. I adore you. I’m willing to give you whatever bit of the world you think you can manage. What else should I do?”

Fanny looked at him. Henry Francis’ eyes had an odd quicksilver quality to them — even staring at them for a long time would leave one quite uncertain as to what color they were. Green, perhaps? Blue? Nonetheless, they had a hypnotic quality to them. A snake’s eyes could do no better.

“You delight in tormenting my f-friends,” Fanny said. “You pretend friendship with me so as to steal my immortal soul. You are cruel to cats.”

Henry gasped aloud. “Princess Katherine has complained about me?”

“Well… I saw you teasing her with a mouse and disliked it!” 

“I’ll stop,” Henry said. “I’ll give her so many treats the next time I see her.” 

Fanny was shaking his head, but Henry took a step closer to him, and closer still until they were almost embracing. Softly, Henry said, “I promise I will not be cruel to either you or the cat.” 

Then he kissed Fanny sweetly on the lips. Now, Henry had proved rather affectionate in the past, but this kiss felt different than the others. They lingered together longer, and Fanny closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. 

When Fanny was pushed onto the bed, he went willingly enough. He was curious as to what Henry planned to do with him. What Henry planned to do was kiss him again. Harder this time. 

When he pulled away, breathless, he said, “Dearest Fanny! I’ve watched over you for so long. You, who have had your heart broken and your body used. I wish I could give you some assurance that I care about you more than you can ever suppose. If you agree, I could take you away from here and show you beautiful places. Wonderful places. Places where you can be truly seen and appreciated.”

“No, no, you’re making fun of me,” said Fanny, shaking his head. 

“I’m not! Truly not,” Henry said earnestly. 

“You think I’m a very tragic person,” Fanny protested. “Your description seems —”

“Fanny, I’m trying to say that I love you and I want to fuck you. For God’s sake, how clearer can I make it?”

“Love me?” Fanny squeaked, embarrassed at how high his voice grew. “What in the world —”

“We don’t have to discuss it now,” Henry replied. He looked embarrassed as well, his normally pale face sporting two spots of color on his cheeks. 

Fanny watched him avidly for a moment before he asked, shyly, if Henry had much experience in the erotic arts. The last bit he had some trouble getting out — it seemed an absurd thing to say. Henry seemed to agree, for he didn’t answer him. He seemed distracted, somehow. 

With a cough, Fanny said, “I don’t mind — I mean, if you fuck me. You know I’m inexperienced and all that, but I’m not a — fool.” 

“Prove it,” Henry replied, leaning back against the pillow. He frowned and slapped his naked thigh. “You’re entirely too dressed for the occasion, Fanny.”

He was about to snap his fingers when Fanny stopped him. 

“Wouldn’t it be better if you did it?” he asked, his face growing hot. “I’d — like you to.”

Henry looked faintly wondering at that, and agreed. His hands were gentle as he began to unbutton Fanny’s jacket, pinching his nipple. It was impossible to be unmoved by such actions, and in truth, Fanny couldn’t even pretend to be. He had been waiting so long for a little bit of — tenderness — that when he had it, even he was surprised at the voracity of his hunger. Even so, he had been taught to care for his clothes, so he pushed Henry’s hands away and undressed himself. His hands shook, of course, and he yanked at his buttons, but he did it.

He kneeled before Henry Francis, without his jacket or shirt, with his trousers pulled down to his thighs. Breathlessly, he said, “Now what?” 

“Take the rest of it off,” Henry said, pulling him down. Fanny knew he ought to be embarrassed at the contrast of his soft, white body against Henry’s wiry frame, but in his present condition, he could not be. He wriggled out of his trousers and made a pleased sound when Henry kissed him again. 

Care for his clothes? Had he really thought that? Fanny kicked away his trousers to the end of the bed. His stockings met a similar fate. Henry watched him, his eyes rapt. 

“I love it, you know,” he said, his chin on his hand. 

“Love what?” Fanny asked, distractedly. Now that he was — mostly — naked, his feeling of vulnerability was leaching back in. Was it colder than before? He glanced at the fireplace, but the fire was still going. 

Gently, Henry’s finger turned Fanny’s face towards his own. “Your body. I love it. It’s solid and warm and quite beautiful. I should encourage your self-hatred, of course, that would be the demonic thing to do, but — why should I lie?” 

Fanny stilled. He looked at Henry and felt the extraordinary impulse to laugh. He climbed on to Henry’s lap and squeezed his thighs against him. Henry’s face, usually so pale and severe, had more than a trace of color to it now. Their faces were very close, so much so that they could have been breathing each other's air. A kiss seemed inevitable, but Fanny ducked down and kissed Henry’s neck instead, almost biting it. Henry gasped as Fanny worked his way downwards, peppering his chest and groin with quick kisses. 

“Fanny,” Henry said, his mouth pulled in a smile even as he looked upward to the ceiling. “I should do this to you…” 

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Fanny said. He had come to Henry’s cock, which was still half-hard. Perfect. As quickly as he could, he took out the ribbon Miss Napier had given him that afternoon — the ribbon that had been blessed with holy water and made by the most pure-hearted of nuns — and tied it around Henry’s cock, firmly against his balls. 

Fanny sprang up quickly, just in time to see the thunderstruck expression on Henry’s face. 

“Where were you… hiding that?” His face was very pale now, for his blood was rushing down to his nether regions. “Not in your —” 

“No! It was in my hand,” Fanny said. He began to stroke Henry’s cock, which rapidly hardened. But to no avail. Henry would never be able to come, with his cock tied in a holy ribbon. Only Fanny could take it off, and they both knew it. 

The silence between them grew and grew, until at last Henry said, “You’ve surprised me once again, Fanny. I suppose that witch told you about this?” 

“Er, yes,” Fanny said. “I’ll take it off if you tell me something.” 

“Are you sure you would want me to be —” Henry shifted his body under Fanny’s own. “Unrestrained?” 

“You’re not going to kill me,” Fanny said, with more confidence than was perhaps warranted. 

“No?” said Henry, his voice rather menacing. 

“No,” Fanny replied, more firmly. 

Henry sighed deeply. “What do you want from me, Fanny? You do want something, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Fanny said. “Of course. I want you to give me your — true name. I know it isn’t Henry Francis —” 

“Oh, that you know!” Henry ejaculated. He squirmed harder under Fanny but made no attempt to throw him off. “Giving you my true name would give you all sorts of power over me. No self-respecting demon would ever do it —” 

“Are you saying your name is worth more than my immortal soul?” Fanny said impatiently. He made a motion to move away, but Henry grabbed his arm. 

“Stay,” Henry said. “So that’s your price, then? My name, for your soul? A poor bargain, Fanny.” 

“Would you do it?” Fanny asked curiously. Henry licked his lips and looked more demonic than he ever had before — the change was not so much in his fine, regular features, but more in the aura of menace that now surrounded him. 

“Yes,” he said, finally. “I would.” 

“Well, then,” Fanny said, surprised. He had thought it would be more of a struggle. “Let’s shake on it?” 

“No,” Henry said severely. “We would have to seal this agreement in a much more personal way. Take the ribbon off.” 

Fanny moved to do it before he stopped. “Maybe I can wish for more — I’ve always wanted to be an actor — and I’d want the farm to do well—” 

“Agreement or not, I will take your soul if you don’t let me go.” 

“You can’t,” Fanny said. “If you had that ability, you would have taken it the moment Webster finished the first ritual to summon you.” 

“That idiot made an open invitation to any demon to come amongst you, with no care to who he summoned. You’re lucky you got me and not some demon of slaughter. Or madness. Or lust —” 

“You’re not a lust demon?” Fanny said. Henry surged up from under him and flipped him over. He was, of course, far stronger than he seemed. 

“No,” Henry Francis said, looming over him. He smiled. “You just have specific tastes.”

Fanny looked back at him boldly. “I suppose I do. So you can’t take the form of whatever I desire right now?”

“All demons can do that. Some of them have dignity enough to refuse.”

“Not you though.”

“Shut up. Take this thing off immediately. It’s starting to burn.”

A thought occurred to Fanny. “Wait. So why were you close enough to be summoned that night? How does it work?”

“I cannot explain the mechanics of demon-summoning from a demon’s perspective, Fanny, it would take far too long. Suffice it to say, I was already in the area. It’s first come, first serve — unless you have the demon’s name on hand.”

“You were already coming to Hawthorne? Did your father want you to learn how to be a real boy?”

Henry’s mouth twitched. “Mm. I hope not, because I haven’t learned.”

Fanny smiled at him before looking down to Henry’s cock, which was standing stiff at attention in his grip. It was a rather marvelous cock, all considered, well proportioned and of a pleasingly rosy complexion. It would not be a terrible thing to have it in him — perhaps. 

“Time’s ticking, Nathaniel Polifax. Make your choice,” said Henry Francis. His voice was different than usual. There was no trace of humor in it. Instead, it was more like the sound of ancient stones grinding against each other. 

“All right,” Fanny said, untying the ribbon. “Do your worst, then.” 

In hindsight, it was a poor choice of words. 

Soon enough, there was not a spot on Fanny's body that had not been kissed, caressed or, alternatively, bitten or scratched by the very savage Henry Francis, who did not spare the rod upon him at all. 

The horror of it was simple: Fanny had never had a better time in his entire life. Henry knew exactly how to make his body sing. The more he took, the more Fanny wanted to give him. It wasn’t simply sodomy, the stuff of schoolboy sniggers. They were having a genuinely moving experience. 

Or at least, Fanny was. After Henry had come in him and pulled away, Henry turned over abruptly and pulled the blanket over himself. Selfishly, he took a majority of the blankets with him. When Fanny tried pulling them back, neither Henry nor the blankets moved. 

“Henry,” Fanny whispered. He didn’t know if demons actually needed to sleep or not, but it seemed as if Henry was asleep. “Give me some of the blankets, damn you. I’ll freeze otherwise.” 

“I don’t care,” Henry replied, his voice muffled. “I want you to freeze anyway.”

“You’re just angry because I tricked you,” Fanny said. He pulled closer to Henry and kissed the back of his neck. “You’re a demon, aren’t you? Give us some hell-fire, dear.”

Henry snorted and turned around. In a superior voice, he told Fanny that actually, hell-fire was very difficult to summon on this particular sphere and only the princes of Hell and higher could summon it willy-nilly. 

“What’s your rank, then?” Fanny asked, genuinely curious. 

Henry looked cagey for a moment, before he sighed dramatically and confessed that he was merely an earl. At Fanny’s confused look, he explained that this was the lowest rank a demon could have and still be considered a part of the hellish nobility. 

“As my father constantly reminds me, I barely qualify,” Henry said with a heavy sigh. 

“What about your mother? Surely she is more considerate?” Fanny wondered. 

Henry was quiet for a long moment before he said, finally, “I have only ever had one parent.” 

“Oh my,” Fanny said. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. “Did your father … birth you?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Fanny,” Henry said heavily. 

“I’m sorry, I’m being inconsiderate,” Fanny said seriously. “And I’m sorry I hurt you earlier. I didn’t think anything would.” 

Henry looked at him coldly for a moment before a sly smile crossed his face. He climbed on top of Fanny and said sweetly, “Well, there is a way you can make it up to me.” 

“Yes, I understand perfectly,” Fanny said. Henry looked as if he doubted it, but Fanny rallied his forces and remembered what he had meant to ask. “Oh! Before I forget. What’s your true name again, ye hellspawn?” 

With a sigh, Henry Francis told him.


	8. Sickness

The next day, the two of them presented themselves on the steps of the Sarah Goode School for Young Gentlewomen, having shoveled their way out of the heavy fall of snow. Mr. York looked them over sharply, and said, “You look extraordinarily terrible, Polifax. What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you sleep at all?” 

“Not a wink, sir,” reported Fanny truthfully. “The ghosts kept me up. The Lewis place is frightfully haunted.” 

“I knew it!” cried Spore, who had been creeping up behind Mr. York. “I’m glad you just sent the two of them there, sir. It would’ve been a slaughter otherwise.” 

“Do shut up, Shaw. What about you, Francis? You’re unusually quiet.” 

“I slept well. There’s no such thing as ghosts, sir,” said Henry Francis. 

*

Lytton was waiting for them when they returned to Hawthorne School. He was uncharacteristically worried. He embraced Fanny as soon as they had trooped in, trying to get the snow off him. 

“Webster’s been quarantined,” Lytton whispered to Fanny, whose heart began to race. “Mrs. Shaw doesn’t think he’ll survive the fever.” 

“What — why?” Fanny stammered. “When we left, he was just under the weather —” 

“Fanny, he won’t wake up,” Lytton said. “He’s fallen into a deadly swoon, she said.” 

The front door opened and Henry Francis strode in. The snow had begun falling again, but there was not a spot of wetness on him. 

“You have to help Webster,” Fanny told him. Henry shook his head. 

“Webster’s illness is perfectly natural,” Henry said. The front door — a heavy wooden thing — slammed shut, without any human agency at all. 

*

Webster felt as though he was as free as air. 

It was almost a relief, after what seemed like days of sweat and weariness. He was rising. His whole being was filled with light. If this was what dying felt like, he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. It was a pity that he had never been able to do the things he had planned, would never get to see Fanny or Lytton again, but therein lay the rub. Death was inevitable and most people didn’t die content. 

His attention drifted down to where his body lay. Already it seemed abandoned, an empty shell. Or so Webster thought, until he saw his fingers twitch. 

Panic began to rise in him. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t — he wasn’t down there, he was outside. But why was he moving if he was still outside? Frantically, Webster began looking for his silver string. It had appeared in all of his other dreams, even in his nightmares with Henry Francis. But he could not see the silver string. 

His body stirred. His eyes opened. His mouth creased into a smile. 

Webster screamed. No one could hear him. He watched as his body sat up and stretched. The thing that was wearing him looked right to the spot where Webster floated, distressed and trapped. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough, as if he was unused to speaking. “You’re no longer needed here.” 

Webster watched as the doctor came in and found his body on the mend; he watched as the creature inside of him chatted happily with his visitors. Fanny poked his head into the room and asked him if he was all right. 

“I am not! Fanny, look at him! He’s not right!” Webster screamed, as Fanny approached the imposter — and embraced him tearfully. Fanny could not hear him. Lytton, when he came, could not hear him. 

The only person who did not come to see him was Henry Francis, and Webster thought that it was because he knew what he would find. 

*

The school was ablaze with the news of Webster’s sudden and miraculous recovery. The doctor declared himself astounded. “I had written the school off as yet another hotbed of sickness, but it seems that it is not so,” said Doctor Jenkins cheerfully. 

“Do you mean to say that you were prepared to see us all die, Doctor?” Mr. York said with a frown. 

“How frightful,” said Mlle Limoges, laying down the novel she had been reading. The students began to filter into the classroom; at the head of them was Webster himself. Everyone could see the startling change in the boy — he had suddenly developed a sense of dignity, of decorum and sobriety, that perhaps came from his brush with death. 

That afternoon, he had finally come down — flanked on both sides by his dearest friends — and the other boys cheered for him. It was a pleasant moment indeed. The only one missing from the festivities, Mr. York noticed, was Henry Francis — an astonishing thing, as that irritating boy was always around. 

Well, perhaps that was for the best. Even a blind man could see that the two of them did not get along. Perhaps, Mr. York thought, things could finally go back to normal now. 


	9. Possessions

Webster was acting oddly, Fanny noticed that immediately. 

He smiled much more often than he had done before, but he seemed aloof as well. He did not speak to them, nor did he inquire as to what Fanny had been doing in the last few days. He did not speak to Fanny often at all. 

Instead, Webster seemed content merely to… observe. He would take his place in the back of the classroom and watch. Fanny would sometimes swivel around to see him, but the strange thing was that no one else seemed to notice that Webster no longer did any work. Certainly not Mr. York, and even Mlle Limoges only complimented him on his conjugations. 

It was in the midst of a study period — overseen by Mr. York, who was reading Mlle Limoges’ new novel with considerable interest — when Henry Francis finally made his appearance. Fanny was astonished. It seemed that he had not seen Henry in days, though that could not be true. Henry ignored his cheerful greeting and made his way directly to where Webster was sitting. 

Fanny nudged Lytton and they both looked over worriedly. Mr. York put down his novel, and the other boys started whispering to each other excitedly. Would there be an outburst? A fight? 

Instead, Henry Francis went to Webster and bowed deeply, getting down on his knee. Fanny could not help but gasp. He had seen the look of dread and trepidation that had flashed across Henry's face as soon as he stepped over the threshold of the room. 

“Er, Francis, what are you doing?” asked Mr. York. 

“Father,” Henry said, his head still bowed. “It wasn’t necessary for you to come all the way here.” 

“Was it not?” said Webster, except it did not sound like Webster at all. The voice seemed to be coming from the depths of the earth. “I am to understand you have been here for months and have taken no souls at all.” 

Fanny stood up quickly and Lytton followed his lead. “Sir,” he told Mr. York, “I think you should take the boys and go.” 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mr. York said, but it was too late to do anything at all. A piercing shriek tore through the school. Every human cried out and clutched at their heads. Webster and Henry Francis were unaffected. 

Fanny tried to get Henry’s attention, but the other boy seemed entirely concerned with having a silent conversation with the thing that had taken over Webster. Henry’s entire posture had changed, his back still bent with deference even as he stood again. 

Fanny’s entire body went cold with fear. He didn’t want this. It had all started so innocently, but now — Webster was possessed and Henry’s father was here. Nothing could be worse than that. 

“Henry! Tell him to leave!” Fanny cried out. Henry turned to look at him and said nothing, though his eyebrows twitched a little. Fanny could feel that Henry didn’t want him to speak, or otherwise attract more attention to himself. But that was impossible. 

Webster looked at him too and sneered. The expression seemed to ripple across his face. It was no longer a human face. 

The house shuddered and shrieked. The walls began to bleed. 

“I say, I don’t know what’s going on here but it has to st—” Mr. York was unable to finish that sentence, for he seemed to disappear, though his suit fell to the ground and a small green creature crawled out. 

“Get on the desk!” Lytton told Fanny sharply, and Fanny did exactly that, for everyone else in the school had suddenly turned into frogs. They were ugly things, with sticky green skin and eyes still bulging with shock. The room was a madness of hopping creatures, some still in their uniforms. Lytton and Fanny stayed stranded on desks, to avoid crushing any of them. 

“There. I’ve done it for you,” said Webster — who was not Webster, clearly. “That didn’t take long, did it, boy?” 

Henry looked up, finally. His face was carefully blank. “No, it didn’t. Thank you, Father.” 

Webster’s terrible, empty eyes turned to Fanny and Lytton. “I suppose you want to keep these two?” 

“Yes,” Henry said. Some animation returned to his face, but he seemed to school himself. “I have contract negotiations with the two of them. They are mine.” 

“Very well,” Webster said. He picked up the French novel — formerly belonging to Mlle Limoges — and exclaimed softly. “Humanity has progressed, indeed. At least in terms of pornography. Are there more?”


	10. The Devil and Gabriel Webster

Princess Katherine kept scratching at the kitchen door, crying to be let out. Before they had taken refuge in the kitchen, it had been quite the ordeal to stop her from trying to eat any of the former students. Lytton was in charge of her and he had barred the doors so the students would not come in. The housekeeper, Mrs. Coates, and the cook, Mrs. Anderson, had been kept safely in a pie-safe. 

Fanny paced in front of the fire and wracked his brains, desperate as to what he should do. Perhaps if he could get out of the school and take one of the horses — see Miss Napier and beg for help from the witches. 

“Why is Webster possessed by — Henry Francis’ father?” Lytton asked finally, coming over with Princess Katherine in his arms. 

“I suppose — Webster had an open invitation for that sort of thing,” Fanny said distractedly. “Not criticizing him, of course. But —”

There was a knock at the door. They looked at each other, and Fanny squared his shoulders and went to see who it was. To his intense relief, it was not Webster and his terrible, empty eyes, but rather Henry Francis, who looked rather irritated. His mood did not improve when Fanny pulled him into the kitchen. 

“We have to conduct an exorcism on Webster,” Fanny said. “Henry, you must see that it’s necessary. I don’t know how long everyone else will survive otherwise. It’s winter — some of the boys may have escaped out of doors.” 

“I don’t care about any of that,” Henry told him coldly. 

Fanny touched his cheek. Henry’s eyes closed for a moment, but they popped open when Fanny withdrew his touch and said, briskly, “You’re afraid of him.” 

“Of course I am,” said Henry savagely. “He is a prince of Hell and I am, as you know, merely hellspawn.” 

“Please,” Fanny said. “I understand that the three of us brought this on, but the others don’t deserve it. Please —” And he said Henry’s true name so softly that only the two of them would hear. 

Henry frowned. “Look, it doesn’t work like that. You have to say it as a command.”

“Well, I don’t want to command you,” said Fanny. “It’s a request between friends. And you are my friend, are you not?” 

Henry’s eyes were steady on him for a moment before he blinked and looked down. “I’ve never had a friend before.” 

Fanny opened his mouth to speak, but Henry continued on, harshly. “Is that what you were expecting me to say? Of course, one would suppose that Hell was a sad and lonely place to grow up — but to think that I would betray my father and my entire way of life for — friendship?”

Fanny took a deep breath, to steady himself. It did no good at all. His heart was still racing in his chest. “You’re — right, of course, you’re right. I am putting you in an impossible position…” 

“I wouldn’t be able to defeat my father — he’s older than me, and more canny. I couldn’t oppose him without destroying myself.” 

“And I can’t ask you to do that,” Fanny said earnestly. 

“You could command me to do so,” Henry said suddenly. 

Fanny shook his head. Then he sighed. “Of course, one expects demons to be all for rebellion and betrayal, but I suppose they don’t want that sort of thing in their own ranks…” 

Henry shot him an unamused look, one that said he knew exactly what Fanny was trying to do. 

“Their own ranks, it’s true. And of course, those with the lowest ranks, such as myself, are the ones mostly likely to rebel… It’s only natural, after all,” Henry went on as he began to pace around the room, leaving Fanny by the fireplace. “What is it to be a demon but to encourage betrayal, the dissolution of familial ties, rebellion against authority? Did not my father send me here expecting me to fail? Does not a faithful son fulfill his father’s expectations?” 

“You’re talking in opposites,” said Lytton, who had sat down on the floor to play with Princess Katherine. 

“Shh, Lytton, he is convincing himself,” said Fanny. He gave Henry an encouraging smile. Henry stopped in front of him and looked earnestly at him. 

“If I were to show you a spell to cleanse a space from demonic possession, what would you give me in exchange?” 

“What would you accept when you have my soul?” Fanny asked impatiently. 

“Your soul? Do I have your soul indeed? I do not recall you signing your name in blood on the required paperwork.” 

“More things you didn’t tell me,” Fanny said with a sad shake of his head. He reached out and pulled Henry closer to him and kissed him. “You have my heart. And by that I mean my love, not my physical heart, which I still need.” 

“I’m glad you’re learning so quickly, Fanny,” said Henry with all apparent sincerity. They kissed again, a softer kiss this time, with hands lingering on each other’s faces. 

Lytton cleared his throat. “So, um, about the exorcism…” 

*

The supplies needed to conduct the exorcism were surprisingly simple: a crock of rock salt, an iron knife, a length of rope, and a bucket of water with the rosary Miss Napier had given to Fanny in it. Fanny wished again that they could appeal to the witches at Sarah Goode for help, but time seemed to be of the essence now. 

For some reason known only to himself, Lytton decided to bring Princess Katherine along with them. 

They made their way cautiously down the hall. The frogs seemed to have kept off the floors, though Fanny could swear he saw the pathetic figure of Spore still clinging to the newel post and croaking at them for help. 

Webster was in the headmaster’s office, leaning back against the chair. He did not seem especially surprised to see them. His mouth curled up, a cruel approximation of a smile. “So this is the rescue party, is it? A fat slut, a disappointment and an oddity. Very good.” 

“Father, I think I deserve an adjective too,” Henry said, with an admirable show of bravado — which was not altogether successful. Princess Katherine, who had not been introduced, jumped from Lytton’s arms and hissed at Webster, her spine arched and her fur puffed out. 

“You were always far too eager for recognition, Foras. That’s why you never received it.”

“Well, yes,” Henry said, biting his lip. A vulnerable look crossed his face. Fanny ached for him. “I had hoped you’d approve of me, one of these days, Father.” 

“He doesn’t need recognition from you!” Fanny said loudly. “Now, we’re here to cast you out of the body of Gabriel Webster. You don’t belong here — we repudiate you, we abhor you, we cast you out!” 

“Why?” asked Webster. “Your friend asked for worldly power. I can grant him that and more. You’re a young fool and shouldn’t interfere with matters that don’t concern you.” 

“I thought I was a fat slut?” Fanny said. Webster rolled his eyes. He began to levitate, but suddenly jerked back against the chair. While they had been speaking, Lytton had crept behind him and bound him to the chair, with a rope soaked in holy water. 

Webster struggled and raged — sometimes it seemed as if the exorcism had already worked, and he cried out to them that he was afraid and didn’t know what was happening, but Henry had instructed them strictly not to listen. The exorcism would have to be completed before Webster would be free. 

But still, one moment he was screaming obscenities at them, and then the next, he tried to reach for Fanny through the ropes, asking for forgiveness. “I know I’ve always treated you poorly, Fanny, but can’t you see? This is killing me!” 

Fanny’s voice faltered, but Henry put a hand on his shoulder. “Keep going,” Henry said, his voice grating and rough. The atmosphere in the room was thick and full of dread. As the ritual came to a crescendo, Webster let out one long scream. The windows broke and the lamp shattered. Both Fanny and Lytton jumped back, away from the flying glass. Webster slumped back against his chair. 

It was over. Fanny was the first to reach him. When he touched Webster’s face, Webster opened his eyes. For the first time in days, Webster’s eyes were looking back at him. Webster began to cry. 

“I thought I was going to die,” he said as Fanny loosened the ropes around him. “You saved me, Nathaniel. You saved me —” 

Fanny looked around and saw that neither Lytton nor Henry had moved from their spots. “Aren’t you going to help me?” 

Webster began to laugh. He broke the chair into splinters and drove a stake into Fanny’s hand. Fanny screamed at the sudden, unexpected pain of it. At the same time, Princess Katherine scratched at Webster’s arms. He batted her away with a growl. 

Henry took a deep breath and picked up the knife that Fanny had dropped in the confusion. It began to smoke in his hands. Webster stopped laughing and said, lazily, “You wouldn’t dare, boy.” 

“I have always obeyed you,” Henry said, approaching them. Fanny tried to push him away, but Henry gave him a meaningful look before he muttered something and Fanny seemed to be pulled away from both him and Webster. 

“Obedience is useless —” Webster began to say before Henry restrained him. Webster began to fight in earnest now, but Henry began to bind him more securely with the ropes. He was bleeding as he did so, and the ropes turned red. 

“No more talk,” Henry said with a bone-weary sigh. His entire body seemed to shudder with fear. “Oh, Father. You’re a dirty little bastard, you know that?” 

“Don’t,” Fanny said, although he did not know what he was trying to say. 

Henry sliced open the palm of his hand with the knife. The blood gushed forth and he slapped a bloody handprint across Webster’s face. Webster screamed and raved, struggling hard against his bonds. Slowly and with great exertion, Henry recited an incantation in a language Fanny did not understand. It was not Latin — it seemed older, and not meant for human tongues. 

As soon as the words left his mouth, both he and Webster collapsed on each other. 

Fanny, who had been staring at the scene in shock, managed to rouse himself. The atmosphere seemed to be returning to normal; he began to hear voices — human voices, of the other boys. 

“Lytton, help me,” he said, and together they pulled Webster and Henry away from the wreckage of the chair. Both of them appeared to be breathing. Webster woke first. He reached out and grabbed Lytton’s collar. “Check for the string,” he babbled. “Check for it! Please!” 

“There’s no string,” Lytton said. “You’re back here, Webster.” 

“I am?” Webster said, his voice shaking. He tried to sit up but Lytton shook his head. Webster turned to look at Fanny and said, “You’re bleeding, Fanny.” 

“Oh,” Fanny said, catching sight of his hand. “That doesn’t look good, does it?” 

In his arms, Henry had begun to stir. Fanny looked down at him. Carefully, he pushed the hair from his face. “Wake up, darling.” 

Eventually, Henry did wake up. He blinked. His eyes, Fanny noticed with rising panic, were a distinctly blue color. No doubt about that at all. 

“I say,” he said, cracking his jaw. “Where am I? The last thing I remember, I was playing squash with the boys at St. Paul’s.” 

“St. Paul’s? In New Hampshire?” said Webster. 

“Yes,” said Henry, perking up. “Have you heard of it? Where am I?” 

“Not New Hampshire,” replied Lytton. 

“That’s very helpful,” Henry replied with a frown. He looked around. “Is this a ruin or a trash heap?” 

Meanwhile, Fanny had stood up and gone to the window. Of course, it all made sense. Henry had said that the plan was to cleanse the space from demonic possession — all demonic possession. 

It was then Mr. York came in, clothed in bits of curtains and Mlle Limoges’ petticoat. He asked, shakily, what had happened. The boys were all entirely unable to explain the situation to him, though Fanny saved the situation by asking if his hand could be looked at. 

Eventually, most things returned to normal. Headmaster Shaw blamed the sudden, mass hysteria that had overtaken the school on insufficient piety. Mr. York thought it was the gruel they ate every day. Mlle Limoges agreed with him, saying that the firm conviction that she had spent several hours in the body of a frog surely could be nothing but a delusion. 

Fanny, Webster and Lytton were punished for the wanton destruction of the headmaster’s office. Henry Francis — for that was his real name — wrote back to his very worried family in New Hampshire that he was safe. Eventually, he was able to go back to his squash-playing. 

All was well — or as well as it could be.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later ...

Merrymount celebrated Midsummer by mounting an obnoxiously large May Pole in the main square. The May Pole was an integral part of the founding legend of the colony, under its first host — the irascible Sir Thomas Morton — and the motley collection of women, indigenous people, Quakers and runaway Puritans who had made up the colony. The May Pole had brought all of these disparate groups together, and the May Pole — and a Quaker woman, named Prudence Justice — had singlehandedly repulsed the Puritan mob that had come to pull it down in the spring of 16—. 

All the other revelers had been too besotted with drink to put up a fight. Not Prudence, however. She had held her ground, and from that, Merrymount had survived to antagonize its Puritan neighbors for centuries afterwards. 

(There were rumors that Prudence was a witch, but that had never been confirmed.) 

All that was well and good, but Fanny found the ordeal of explaining the May Pole to his sister Charlotte to be quite a taxing experience. The May Pole was a _very_ phallic symbol, thrusting up into the blue spring sky, after all, and Charlotte had burst out laughing on her first glimpse of it. 

“Fanny! Do you think it is really proper for _anyone_ to see this?” She set down her valise to look more at it, but Fanny picked it up again and began to lead her to the hotel off the square. 

“Sister, they are very fond of it and will never put it down until the solstice is quite finished,” Fanny said. “Now, you must rest at the hotel until the performance. I expect my old classmate, John Lytton, to come to the performance too — I hope I can introduce the two of you after the performance.”

“John Lytton — the one who was obsessed with crabs? The lighthouse keeper? Or is he the one who married rich and emigrated to the West?” 

“Lytton is the assistant lighthouse keeper of Desert Island Rock,” Fanny answered her. They had safely made their way to the hotel where Charlotte would be staying for the duration of her visit.

When they had first made plans for her to come and see Fanny’s first staged play, he had asked, rather anxiously, if she wished to travel with a companion, but she had rebuffed him quite sharply. At the age of thirty-two and being a published author, Charlotte had no need for a chaperone. 

Sheepishly, Fanny had agreed with her — though the distance between Merrymount and Lower Wolfsnare was a long one, and the journey could be trying at times, with the railways being so very new. 

“I cannot imagine volunteering for such a post,” Charlotte mused now, as they checked into the hotel. It was high summer and the hotel was filled with people.

“He loves it,” Fanny said. “Lytton has always been very partial to the sea.” 

It had taken a great deal of persuading and funds to get Charlotte a room at the hotel — it would be more proper if Fanny were to stay with her, but he lived in the ramshackle apartments above the theater as his play neared completion. 

“What an odd man he must be!” Charlotte exclaimed. “And he hasn’t married?” 

“Lytton will never marry,” Fanny said. “He is quite determined.” 

“So should we all be so determined, to do with our lives as we will!” said Charlotte. A waiter came by and brought them two flutes of champagne. Fanny and Charlotte toasted to each other and to following one’s heart, as difficult as that may be. 

*

Fanny’s play was not good. 

He, the playwright, knew this fact very well. He had so many visions and feelings — but to express it well was a matter of great difficulty for him. But still, he persisted. 

Since his first year in college, he had often felt frantic about committing his thoughts to paper. His plays then had been the source of much amusement among his college friends, but he had worked tirelessly at it — worked harder on that than towards his nominal degree, in fact. The three of them — he, Webster and Lytton — had entered university together, but by the end of the four years in Cambridge, Fanny was alone. 

Lytton had left abruptly after an unusually vehement argument with the most prominent professor of natural sciences at the university. Such an argument came as a surprise to all who knew him; Lytton was mild-mannered to the extreme, as was the professor. The subject of their disagreement too was a puzzle — it was the question of the evolution of crabs. 

He had then signed up for the Lighthouse Establishment and was assigned at first to Nodasque Light, which was still traversable to his university friends. Fanny himself had gone once or twice. Later, Lytton transferred over to Desert Island Rock, the most remote lighthouse in the country. According to his letters, he could not have been more happy with the change.

Fanny could not understand how this was true — Desert Island Rock seemed like a frightful place especially, with not a speck of dirt on which a flower could grow. But Lytton was happy in his lighthouse, close and yet so far from the Stygian depths of the ocean, of which he often dreamt. 

It was a surprise to Fanny when Lytton agreed to come to the premiere of his play. But despite all of his preoccupations, Lytton was still a true friend. 

The same, sadly, could not be said for Webster. Well, that was not quite right either — Webster had never been the same since his possession. He withdrew within himself afterwards, and would not speak about it to anyone, not even Fanny or Lytton. The only thing he would say was that the separation and dread he had felt whilst trapped outside of his body gave rise to his fears for what would follow him — and everyone who ever lived — after death. Such dark feeling persisted, and he sought refuge everywhere he could find it: in drink, in religious instruction — though he never could forgive that priest for giving him well-water instead of holy water — and finally, in love. 

Cassandra Cowart was an adventurous soul and an heiress to boot. When she had met Webster, he had perhaps been at his lowest ebb. Meeting her had an invigorating effect on Webster. They began courting immediately after meeting and married shortly afterwards, much to the displeasure of the Cowart family. It was then Webster received his own inheritance from Captain Amos’ sizable estate. 

Thus so happily established, the couple set off all points west, embarking on a journey that would put them far away from all who had known them before. 

There were certain times in the night when Fanny would start from his bed with the firm conviction that Webster was dead, but he had no evidence for that. Webster was a reluctant letter writer, and the mail came slowly from one end of the continent to the other. Fanny had to accept that Webster was happy and free — and indeed, there was a type of satisfaction to be gained from that.

After all, it was agony to see a friend suffer and be helpless to aid him. Webster never spoke of that time at Hawthorne, and Fanny was sure he never told Cassandra about it.

It was just as well — Fanny tried not to think of that time very much either, though he did, and often. His play was partially based on the experience, though most critics would think that _Sympathy for the Devil_ was simply a solipsistic take on the story of Faust, although he was split into three ways in the mode of modern psychology. It would not do to think of what the critics would say just yet, however. 

Fanny was in the small closet the theater laughingly called a dressing room, and he looked anxiously at his make-up. His own part in the play was a small one — the Devil was only to appear in the third act —but he thought that the greasy paint had really done a marvelous job in making him look appropriately wicked. Fanny stroked his false Van Dyke beard and wondered if he oughtn’t grow one out anyway. 

There was a knock at the door and shuffling. “Delivery for Mr. Polifax.”

Fanny tore his eyes from the mirror and frowned. Charlotte was safely ensconced in her box. Lytton had not yet telegrammed to say that he was on his way. “Are you sure? Miss Clay’s dressing room is further on.” 

“It’s not for Miss Clay,” said Havers, the theater’s errand boy. Puzzled, Fanny opened the door and was greeted with the sight of roses — vibrantly red and still faintly wet with dew. Fanny was dumbstruck. He was absolutely certain that he had no admirer.

He looked up to see the face of a stranger, and pulled back. “You’re not Havers.”

“Of course I’m not Havers,” said the man. He was tall and darkly handsome — almost unbelievably so. There was a streak of white across his black hair. He was, Fanny thought, the most theatrical-looking man Fanny had ever seen.

“You are…”

The man pulled off his cravat and showed off the burn of rope-marks against his neck. “You needn’t feel guilty — this one was hanged before I got to him.”

“You’re — _you’re_ —”

“Did you miss me, Fanny? I hope you did,” said the man who had formerly been Henry Francis. 

Fanny felt faint. He had thought — he had _hoped_ — this would happen for ten years now, the hope growing fainter and fainter with every year. Even so, Fanny had long pondered what he would say on Henry Francis’ return — something clever, something poignant or saucy.

Now Fanny couldn’t remember a single thing. 

“It’s been ten years,” Fanny said, and immediately regretted it.

“Has it? It feels like no time at all for me.”

“Foras,” Fanny said with difficulty. That was his name, after all. Not Henry Francis, that poor squash-player from New Hampshire. Foras, a demon from Hell. A demon that Fanny had loved dearly. “I thought — once you were gone, you were gone forever.”

“Nothing’s forever, sweetheart,” Foras said gallantly, and there the curtain would have fallen, except this was real life and not a play. 

“Then why did you stay away for so long?” Fanny demanded. “If you could have come at any time.”

“I — well, that’s not important, is it?” Foras brushed past him and put the flowers in a vase that hadn’t been there before. He arranged the flowers beautifully and stepped back to admire it. Fanny stared at him. 

Eventually, Foras admitted, “I was punished for my disobedience. And time works differently below. I feared that when I was finally able to come here, you would be —”

_Long dead._

Fanny swallowed hard and then made a little gesture of cheerful acceptance. “Well, I congratulate you on your good timing.”

“Fanny —” Foras stepped towards him and stopped short. “You’re angry at me. You’ve found someone else. You don’t care about me anymore.”

“No! None of that is true, it’s only— how did you even find me here?”

Foras lifted his head and looked at him. Fanny had a sudden vision of Lytton on top of his lighthouse, binoculars in hand, watching the broken figure of a drowned sailor climbing up the tower. It was a fearful scene, but Lytton only looked on silently.

From the sailor’s dead lips, Foras croaked out, “You owe me a favor.”

Fanny never learned Lytton’s reply. Instead, Foras cast down his eyes, showing the dark shadows of his lashes. “He was most helpful.”

“Did he help you find the best-looking condemned criminal as well?” Fanny asked, amused. 

“Yes,” Foras told him eagerly. “He was a bigamist and a murderer, but his cock is amazing, you’ll see.”

There was another knock at the door. This time it was Havers. The second act was over and it was time for the Devil to make his appearance. 

Before Fanny quit the dressing room, he turned and looked at Foras and asked, tentatively, if he would like to watch the rest of the play. It wouldn’t take long and there were plenty of seats.

“I will,” Foras assured him.

“Sir!” Havers cried.

“Come and see the show — please stay,” Fanny cried as he was dragged away.

*

The last act of the play was a surprising triumph. The audience was pulled from the doldrums of the first two acts into a frenzy by the appearance of the Devil, oft referenced and only now seen, for whom the play was named. Fanny could feel every time one of his jokes landed, and the adoration of the crowd. Also, he felt an invisible hand pinch his bottom, but he knew better than to react.

After the final curtain call, Fanny was about to catch his breath at last. Soon, he was surrounded by excited people — the other actors and the crew — but besides them, he looked around for both Charlotte and — _him_.

_He_ appeared quickly, arriving arm in arm with Charlotte. 

“Fanny!” Charlotte exclaimed when they were closer together. “Is this the legendary Mr. Lytton himself?”

Disbelievingly, Fanny turned to Foras and asked, “Is that what you told her?”

Foras shrugged. “I said that I was an old school-friend. You should have talked of more than one.”

“Charlotte, this is not Lytton,” Fanny said hastily and paused. He had no idea what to call him now. He shot Foras a pleading look, which Foras seemed to like.

“My name is … Francis Henry,” he said with considerable delight.

“My God,” Fanny said. “Really?”

“I think I recognize you,” said Mr. Eugene, the organist. He frowned. “Were you in the papers recently?”

“No,” said Foras. Fanny took his arm and said in a conciliatory tone, “Francis lives abroad. He has just come back.”

Foras nodded, and then turned quickly and pressed a kiss on Fanny’s lips. Fanny kissed him back before he remembered himself.

“And he is... European,” he said to the surprised party. 

He was spared the need for further explanation by Havers coming in with the early reviews. The news was good, and the party jolly. Foras’ arm strayed around Fanny’s waist, and that was alright too.

When the suggestion was put forth for them to go carousing around the May Pole, they went along happily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to El again! It is finished. 
> 
> In our main universe, the people of Merrymount simply could not get their shit together, re: the May Pole and the Puritans came in and brought it down, RIP.

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/theryangeorge/status/1204821475800363008?lang=en). The moon _is_ right to summon the devil, baby! Thanks to El for the suggestion and betaing. 
> 
> This work is complete (except the epilogue). Subscribe for updates. Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated and will _not_ be sacrificed to demons.


End file.
